gentlemen."

"Hush! Mr. Jollytoast," said the antiquary. "Hush! gentlemen, for the 'Phantom Flea.'"

"Tremulous music, lights half down," muttered the tragedian; but he was instantly silenced by the chairman.

Mr. Oldstone gave one final authoritative thump on the table, and glanced severely at all the guests. The silence that ensued was awful, while Mr. Hardcase, after a sip at his glass and a puff at his long churchwarden, began his story in the following manner:

CHAPTER I.

The Phantom Flea.—The Lawyer's Story.[1]

One morning, many years ago, whilst sitting idly in my chambers in town, I received a letter from Baron —— to come down for a few days to his country seat in ——shire. It was on business he wanted me; he had got involved in some quarrel. The case was about to be brought before the court, and the Baron wanted a legal adviser.

Having heard much of my abilities, as he said, he thought he could not do better than write to me at once. He regretted that business would prevent him from being at the Hall on my arrival, but he hoped to return home some time the next day. In the meantime he had told his housekeeper to make up a bed for me at the Hall, and had left open his bookcase, lest the time might hang heavy on my hands.

Glad of an excuse to leave town, as it was getting very hot and I had nothing to do, I took the stage, and towards the middle of the next day found myself in front of the Baron's country seat.

It was a fine, stately mansion, surrounded by a moat. I crossed the drawbridge, and inquired whether the Baron was at home. A respectable matron answered the door. She replied in the negative to my question.

Then, asking if I were Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, and learning that I was, she said "The Baron left word that he would be at home some time to-morrow, or the day after for certain; that in the meantime you were to make yourself quite at home, sir."

"Oh, very well," said I; "I am rather tired just at present. Leave me here among the Baron's books. When I have sufficiently rested I should like to look over the house. It seems a curious old place."

"Yes, sir, it is a very old place," said the housekeeper. "But wouldn't you like to take a little refreshment first?"

Being then past one o'clock, and having had but a hurried breakfast, I thanked her and said I thought I could manage a little light refreshment. She then left me alone, but soon returned with a tray containing what seemed to be the fag end of a sumptuous banquet. There was venison pasty, a boiled leg of turkey, some ham, vegetables, bread and cheese, salad, raspberry and currant tart, a bottle of good old crusted port, some sherry, Burgundy, etc.

Having done justice to this light repast, I rang the bell for the things to be cleared away; after which I took down a great number of volumes from the bookcase, and throwing myself into an easy-chair, I deposited the books in a heap upon the floor, and began examining their titles, and occasionally reading a passage here and there when it interested me.

The first book I laid hands on was "Fox's Book of Martyrs," with plates showing the various modes of torture by which the early Christians were put to death. I passed on to the next. This was a book of Chinese punishments, with Chinese illustrations. I opened the book at a plate of a man being skinned alive.

Having little taste for these sort of horrors, I closed the book and passed on to the next. The third book was a description of celebrated executions, with a plate as frontispiece of a man being hanged, drawn, and quartered. "The Baron seems fond of the horrible," I thought, and I took up another. This was on bull-baiting, cock-fighting, and other cruel sports. Another was a book on poisons. A sixth, on the various modes of self-defence. A seventh, a book on field sports. I put down the book for a moment and sat musing, trying to imagine to myself what manner of man the Baron might be. I gazed round the room, and noticed that it was hung round by trophies of the chase—stags' antlers, foxes' brushes, intermingled with guns, powder-flasks, etc. Here and there were hung half suits of armour, belonging, no doubt, to the Baron's ancestors.

Then, from musing I fell into a dose, and dreamed of the wild hunter and all sorts of curious and horrible things.

On awaking I reflected that I had not been over the house, so I went in search of the housekeeper, who asked me if I would like to see the picture gallery. Nothing loth, I followed my guide, who pointed me out the portraits of the present Baron's ancestors for I know not how many generations back.

The portrait of the present Baron was not amongst them. I noticed a strong family likeness running through all of the portraits, and I wondered if the Baron inherited the likeness. I asked the housekeeper, and she assured me that he did in a very striking degree. On leaving the gallery, I passed through long oaken corridors, through immense chambers hung with tapestry, on which were depicted either battles or scenes of the chase.

"The Baron inherits the tastes of his ancestors, it would appear," I said to the matron.

"Ah! sir," said she, with a sigh, and tried to force a smile, but it was a bitter one.

I took little notice of her expression at the time, and soon after left her, to stroll about in the garden. It was a spacious one, laid out in good taste. There were terraces, broad velvet lawns, cedars of Lebanon, avenues of yew trees, glimpses of distant hills, flower beds, luxuriant with every variety of the choicest flowers. There were broad walks and serpentine paths, oaks, beeches, elms; a lake with an island in the middle, which was reached by a rustic bridge; weeping-willows, summer-houses, and everything that could be desired. I strolled about the garden, struck with admiration every step I took at the exquisite taste with which everything was carried out, and wondered how it was that the same mind which took such delight in the horrible should possess such exquisite refinement of taste in the planning of his garden.

I doubted the garden being the result of the Baron's own taste, nor was I mistaken, as I afterwards ascertained from the housekeeper. I strolled back towards the house, which I examined carefully over for the second time, then strolled out again into the garden, and so on till supper, which I took about nine o'clock.

Feeling rather lonely, I invited Mrs. Wharton, the housekeeper, to keep me company during my solitary meal. She sat down opposite to me as I commenced devouring my cold fowl and tongue, and helped myself to a glass of the Baron's ale. She was an agreeable old lady, and seemed to have known better days.

"This is a curious old place," I began. "Have you any rats here?"

"No, sir, none now," answered the matron.

"Nor bugs?"

"No."

"Nor